


Blame it On the Rain

by radiofreekerberos



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Platonic Sheith, Protective Shiro (Voltron), SHEITH - Freeform, Whump Fic, Young Shiro, alternate universe - pre-Kerberos, young keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12213669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiofreekerberos/pseuds/radiofreekerberos
Summary: He’d looked down for a second, no less than a second, half a second, to adjust the wiper speed and when he’d looked up again it was just in time to see some crazy kid run out in front of him.or, the one where Shiro practically kills Keith when they first meet, then ends up saving him instead





	Blame it On the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this for @imhereformysciencefriends on Tumblr who asked for Sheith meeting for the first time when it's rainy. Keith's Vlog came out and this story popped into my head. Hope you like it :)

Shiro’s mom is gonna kill him. She’d made him promise to be careful like a million times before she’d finally, FINALLY, agreed to let him take the car literally around the corner to his friend Matt’s house. He could’ve walked, in retrospect, he should’ve, but there’s no point in crying about that now. The damage is done.

He just sits there for a moment, staring at the wipers swaying back and forth across the windshield, making not one iota of difference to the river of water obstructing his view. Naturally the skies had opened up as soon as he’d gotten behind the wheel, reducing visibility to less than zero.

He’d looked down for a second, no less than a second, half a second, to adjust the wiper speed and when he’d looked up again it was just in time to see some crazy kid run out in front of him. 

Shiro slammed on the brakes, his tires skidding in the flash flood of water covering the pavement, but it was too late. The kid bounced off the front of the car and went down in the street like a ton of bricks.

Shiro swallows, trying to force his heart to leave his throat and return to his chest where it belongs. There’s a bunch of kids standing on the curb staring at him. He turns his head and they immediately scatter. Hauling ass across the manicured lawns to disappear among the neighborhood houses. 

“Punks,” he mutters, throwing the car into park. He’s ninety-nine percent positive that kid ran out in front of him on a dare from his dumbass friends. 

He’s halfway through the car door when a small hand slides onto the hood of the car and the kid suddenly lurches to his feet right in front of him. He turns his head. Shiro can make out little more than a dark head of hair under the soaked red hoodie obscuring his face.

The kid momentarily leans against the hood of the car, then quickly limps away, one arm cradled awkwardly against his chest. 

“What the fuck,” Shiro murmurs, watching him for a moment before he manages to gather his wits and run after him. “Hey!” he calls. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Leave me alone!” the kid yells back over his shoulder. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Whoah, whoah, whoah,” Shiro cries, easily overtaking the kid and gripping him by one bony shoulder. “You just got hit by a car. You shouldn't be moving around. You need to wait here and I need to call 9-1-1.” 

“NO!” the kid cries, flinching away from him. “No 9-1-1, if you tell them you hit somebody they'll send the cops!”

He’s puny and really undernourished, painfully thin beneath his grubby clothes. Now that Shiro is close enough to see his face through the spilling rain he can see the remnants of a shiner bruising the skin around his left eye and a crusty scab covering his split bottom lip.

“So what?” Shiro frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “You didn't shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die did you?”

“What? No!” the kid snaps, “I just don't like cops okay? They ask too many questions.” His eyes shift to the grassy curb over Shiro’s shoulder.

“If you’re looking for your friends,” Shiro says, following his gaze, “they all scattered like the pack of cowardly little rats they are.”

“They’re not my friends,” the kid says bitterly, “those guys are dicks!”

Shiro frowns suddenly, a sick feeling gnawing at his stomach. “Did one of those little assholes push you out in front of my car?”

The kid looks up sharply at that. “What do you care,” he mutters, “leave me alone!” He attempts to leave again, turning his back on Shiro and determinedly hobbling away.

“Hey!” Shiro yells, grabbing him before he can make it more than a few steps. The kid winces and Shiro guiltily drops his hands. “Look, I can’t let you leave okay?” he says, trying to keep his tone as reasonable as possible, “You’re obviously hurt. If you won’t let me call an ambulance, then at least let me drive you to the emergency room.”

“I don’t need to go to the emergency room,” the kid stubbornly insists, “I just need to go home.”

“Really,” Shiro says flatly. “So you always hold your arm like that do you?”

The kid’s eyes dart to the arm bent protectively over his chest. “My arm is fine,” he grumbles, barely managing to move it a quarter of an inch before wincing in pain. “See?” he says through clenched teeth.

Shiro has to consciously stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Tell you what,” he says, “if you can straighten out your arm and wiggle your fingers, I’ll leave you alone.”

“Fine,” the kid growls, scowling at him. He clenches his jaw and gingerly tries to unfold his arm, almost immediately crying out in pain. “Fuuuuuck!” he screams in frustration. 

“Yeah, emergency room, now,” Shiro says flatly. He wraps his arm around the kid’s uninjured shoulder and attempts to help him back to the car.

“Get off me you big tree!” the kid cries, shoving him aside, “I can do it myself!” 

At least he doesn’t try to run again. Shiro slowly shadows the kid to make sure he doesn’t slip and fall on the rain slick street as he slowly hobbles back to the car. “Banged your knee up pretty good too, huh,” he remarks mildly.

“Shut up!” the kid snaps without turning to look at him.

Shiro runs ahead to the passenger side of the car and holds the door open for the kid. He scowls at Shiro, but doesn’t protest when Shiro provides him an arm to lean on as he gingerly climbs into the passenger seat. Shiro slams the door shut behind him. He darts around the back of the car and quickly climbs into the driver’s seat next to him.

The kid slides the soaked hoodie from his head, revealing a tangled mess of long dark hair. He’s shivering. Shiro reaches for the dashboard and turns all the heating vents up as high as they’ll go. The kid shakes his wet head, spraying the car’s interior with frigid droplets of water. 

Shiro cringes at the beads of water soaking the faux wood paneling. His mom’s gonna kill him twice. “So what happened here?” he asks, gesturing towards the fading bruises covering the kid’s face.

The kid’s eyes flicker to Shiro’s face. “I tripped,” he says flatly.

“Yeah, right into somebody’s fist it looks like,” Shiro scoffs. The kid just glares at him, and Shiro sighs. “Did one of those guys really shove you out into the street?” he asks.

The kid just looks at him for a moment, then he leans back against the seat and nods once, angrily swiping tears from his eyes. Most of the fight seems to have gone out of him. Mostly he just looks done, exhausted and defeated as if he hasn't had a good night’s sleep in… ever.

“We really should call the cops you know,” Shiro says not unkindly. He opens the glovebox and pulls out one of those little plastic tissue packs his mom keeps stashed in there. He offers it to the kid. 

The kid eyes him for a moment like he’s some kind of alien, then he scowls and plucks a tissue from the pack. “Why? Did you see them do it?” he asks.

“No,” Shiro admits ruefully.

The kid shrugs and winces. “Then it’d just be my word against theirs,” he says sullenly, wiping his nose, “fuckers like that always stick together.”

Shiro frowns. He can’t really argue with that, he supposes. Even if the little shit hadn’t been able to see the car coming through the rain, that was still no excuse for what he did. He sighs and shifts the car into drive. “Sorry for running you over,” he says, glancing into the sideview mirror before pulling out into the street.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the kid says wearily, “I’m just glad you weren't going any faster.”

“Blame it on the rain,” Shiro says wryly, “I’m Takashi, by the way, Takashi Shirogane. But you can call me Shiro, that’s what all my friends call me.”

The kid just stares at him as if he can’t quite comprehend why Shiro would ever choose to tell him something like that.

“You got some kind of secret identity you’re protecting, or something?” Shiro asks, one eyebrow quirking wryly.

“Huh?” the kid exclaims blankly.

“Your name kid, I still don’t know it.”

“Oh,” the kid says, blinking in confusion, “Keith.”

Shiro smiles slightly and nods his head in greeting. Keith just glares at him. Shiro sighs, this kid’s got a chip on his shoulder bigger than Texas. “I should really call your parents and have them meet us at the hospital,” he says.

“Don’t have parents,” Keith mutters, “just Todd.”

“Todd, who’s that your brother?”

“He’s my… foster dad,” Keith says, his voice cracking with tension.

“You’re in the system?” Shiro asks, his eyes temporarily leaving the road to scan Keith’s face.

“You too?” Keith asks, surprised.

“Briefly,” Shiro says. He was lucky. His parents adopted him when he was two-years-old. He’s spent the majority of his life feeling secure and loved. Sitting next to Keith is like staring down the road not traveled. A glimpse into his life as it might have been if his parents had never found him. “Is Todd the one who gave you that?” he asks, indicating Keith’s fading black eye with a tilt of his head.

“It’s not all the time,” Keith says, trying to sound neutral about it, but Shiro can tell by the kid’s face that he’s terrified of the guy, “he mostly leaves me alone.”

“Yeah, except for the times when he doesn’t,” Shiro says, turning towards him with a scowl.

“Eyes on the road! Eyes on the road!” Keith shrieks, staring wide-eyed at the windshield.

Shiro’s eyes return to the road just in time to see an anti-grav van run the stop sign in the intersection he’s about to cross. “Shit!” he yelps, stomping on the brake as the van shoots through the intersection mere inches from his front bumper. Both boys sit in owl-eyed silence for a moment, their hearts racing as they watch the oblivious driver speeding away from them.

“Jesus!” Keith snaps tartly. “Do you even know how to drive this thing?”

“Of course I do,” Shiro grumbles, frankly a little hacked off that Keith is blaming him for the near miss, “I’ve been driving for months.”

“Months?” Keith’s eyes narrow with growing suspicion. “You do have a license though, right?”

“Not technically, no,” Shiro says, “I have a permit.”

Keith pulls a face. “Pull over,” he says flatly, “I’ll walk to the hospital.”

“Relax, I know what I’m doing.”

“You ran me over!” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t my fault!”

“That was before I saw you drive!” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who ran the stop sign,” Shiro grumbles, glaring at him. 

“Great, I’ll be sure to have that engraved on my tombstone.” Keith grunts sarcastically.

Shiro sighs and scrubs his face. “Look, we’re almost there,” he says, forcing himself to remain calm. “Why don’t you just try to relax and I’ll concentrate on getting us there in one piece, okay?”

“Fine,” Keith reluctantly concedes. Shiro slowly continues down the road while Keith eyes him in silence for a moment. “How do you not have a license?” he finally asks. “How old are you anyway?”

“Sixteen,” Shiro says, carefully checking for oncoming traffic before turning left at the next corner.

Keith frowns. “You look older,” he says.

“You think so?” Shiro asks absently.

“Probably because you’re like a foot taller than anyone’s supposed to be,” Keith mutters, theatrically rolling his eyes. Shiro nearly laughs, until he realizes that Keith is being completely serious, which just makes him want to laugh harder. Somehow he manages to refrain.

“Well, how old are you?” he asks instead.

“Fourteen,” Keith says, averting his eyes.

“Really,” Shiro says flatly.

“Yeah.”

“ _You’re_ fourteen,” Shiro says, one eyebrow quirking skeptically, “ _you_.”

“Yes!” Keith snaps indignantly.

“I don’t think so,” Shiro says flatly.

“I…,” Keith says, and Shiro scowls, eyeing him askance, “will be fourteen…,” Keith continues, “on my birthday… in eighteen months,” he concludes sheepishly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Shiro murmurs smugly.

They arrive at the hospital and Shiro pulls around to the emergency entrance. “Anyway, thanks I guess,” Keith mutters, not meeting Shiro’s eyes.

“You _are_ going in, right?” Shiro asks.

Keith freezes in the midst of opening the car door. “Why, are you gonna run me over again if I don’t?”

“Do I have to?” Shiro asks.

Keith pulls a face. “No,” he grumbles sullenly, “I’m going.”

Shiro waits by the entrance and watches him go in anyway. Then he waits there for about ten minutes just to make sure the kid doesn’t try to sneak out again as soon as he leaves. 

His phone dings. Shiro reaches into his back pocket and looks at the text message from his mom, _Where are you??_ it says. Oh yeah, he’s in deep shit now. His mom must’ve called Matt’s house to check on him and found out he never arrived. If he doesn’t get back to her in the next ten minutes, her next call will be to the police.

He sits there for a moment staring at her message. He wonders if there’s a dent in the front fender where Keith bounced off the car. He’s been too afraid to look, but probably. His parents are gonna kill him. They love this car. It’s vintage. The phone starts ringing in his hand, startling the shit out of him. It’s his mom. He diverts the call.

He eyes the emergency room doors through the driving rain. There’s no need to hang around any longer. He needs to get home and face the music. He’s done what he was supposed to do. He’s made sure that Keith’s injuries will be seen to. Shiro’s got nothing to feel guilty about. Keith is nothing to him… except he’s got no one else. He’s an injured twelve-year-old kid who’s in the hospital all by himself. 

“Shit,” Shiro mutters. There’s no use trying to talk himself out of it. He’s all in now. He pulls away from the curb and follows the signs to the visitors parking lot...

***

Two hours later Keith emerges from the sliding glass doors leading to the treatment rooms. His right arm is folded across his chest in a long bright blue cortex cast past his elbow and his grungy red hoodie is wadded up in his left hand. There’s a small white paper bag stamped with a medical barcode dangling from his slightly swollen fingers and his knee seems much improved, hampering him with nothing more than the barest hint of a limp.

Shiro stands, unfolding himself from the uncomfortable vinyl chair he’s been trapped in for the last two hours and Keith stops dead in his tracks. For a split second, Keith actually looks happy to see him, before the all too familiar look of suspicion returns to his eyes.

“You’re still here,” he says flatly, stalking his way over.

Shiro frowns a bit as he stretches to work the kinks out of his back. He’s had worse greetings, he supposes. “How’s the knee?” he asks mildly.

“They said it was dislocated,” Keith says cautiously. “It’s not anymore.”

“Is that for your arm?” Shiro asks, nodding at the prescription bag dangling from Keith’s broken hand.

Keith shrugs. “I guess,” he says absently. He pauses, anxiously gnawing his bottom lip. “Does this,” he says, carefully lifting his casted arm, “is it, like really noticeable?”

“You look fine,” Shiro assures him. Keith just stands there looking vaguely anxious and Shiro suddenly gets the feeling that he was hoping for a different answer. “I’m a little surprised the cops haven’t shown up yet,” he says, deciding to leave that puzzle for later.

“Why?” Keith asks sharply. “Did you call them!”

“No, but I mean, didn’t the doctor? When they saw what Todd did to your face?”

Keith relaxes slightly. “I told him I got into a fight at school,” he mutters curtly.

“Why would you do that?” Shiro demands.

“It’s what he was thinking anyway,” Keith says, scowling at him. “I just didn’t deny it.”

Shiro can feel his jaw involuntarily clenching. He hates that. He hates the thought of Keith throwing himself under the bus to protect the asshole who periodically beats him. Keith seems oblivious to his concerns though, he sighs and starts shaking out his grimy hoodie, preparing to pull it on again one handed.

“No, don’t put that back on,” Shiro huffs, rolling his eyes, “It’s cold and wet and… gross. Here,” he says handing Keith a newly purchased one to wear instead. It’ll be too big, but it was the only size available. 

Keith reels slightly as Shiro presses it into his hand. He unfurls the sky blue fabric and dubiously stares at the garish _IT’S A BOY_ stamped on the front in rainbow colored ink. 

“Options were kind of limited in the hospital gift shop,” Shiro explains, “it was either that or congratulations on your new baby.” 

Keith’s eyes narrow into a particularly mistrustful glare. 

“What?” Shiro asks.

“Why are you doing this?” Keith demands.

“Doing what? Finding you a clean dry shirt? So you don’t get lockjaw and die,” Shiro says dryly.

“No this,” Keith says with a vague wave of his good hand, “ _all_ of this. Why are you still here? And why are you being so nice to me?”

Shiro honestly doesn’t know how to answer that. From his standpoint, he hasn't been very nice at all. He practically mowed the kid down and almost abandoned him at the hospital. Now he’s just trying to make things right. It’s nothing that anyone else wouldn’t do in his place. He just doesn't know how to explain that to Keith.

The longer Shiro stares at him without answering, the more uncomfortable Keith becomes. 

“What?” he finally demands.

“Are you hungry?” Shiro asks him. “When’s the last time you ate?” Keith just stands there, blinking at him like a particularly annoyed baby owl. “I’m assuming from the dazed look on your face that you either can’t remember, or you’re too embarrassed to admit how long it’s been.” Shiro says. “Either way, I’m guessing you could use a hot meal.” He turns on his heel and starts heading for the exit. “Keith, you coming or what?” he calls over his shoulder. 

Keith silently joins him a moment later, pulling on the shirt as he goes…

***

They go to a Diner. Shiro loves Diners. Who doesn’t love restaurants where the entire menu is comfort food. He orders pancakes for both of them and a chocolate milkshake for Keith, because there’s virtually no problem in the world that can’t be made just a little better with pancakes and a chocolate milkshake. Shiro tucks in as soon as the food arrives, but Keith just sits there staring at it, like a kid with his nose pressed up against a shop window at Christmas.

“You don’t like pancakes?” Shiro asks, around a mouthful of food. “You can order anything you want you know.”

‘No, I like pancakes, fine,” Keith mumbles sheepishly, “I just… can’t pay for any of this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shiro says mildly, “it’s on me.”

That doesn’t seem to make Keith feel any better, but to Shiro’s relief, because frankly the kid’s like a freaking skeleton, he sighs and picks up his fork. He takes a tentative bite, then as if suddenly realizing how hungry he really is, he quickly starts shoveling huge forkfuls into his mouth. Shiro grimaces slightly. “Hey, slow down, you’ll make yourself sick,” he says.

Keith looks at him and swallows. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Your parents won’t mind you spending their money on me?” he asks a little uneasily.

“It’s not their money,” Shiro says, between bites. “It’s mine. I stock shelves at Safeway after school.”

“You shouldn’t be wasting your money on me, then,” Keith says, pushing his plate away.

“I don’t consider it a waste,” Shiro says, sliding Keith’s plate back and physically placing the syrup covered fork into his hand.

Keith looks as if he’s about to protest, then his stomach apparently wins out and he starts eating again, though at a more subdued pace. “Are you saving up for college, or something,” he asks, thoughtfully eyeing Shiro over his milkshake.

“Not exactly,” Shiro says, “I’m planning on joining the Explorer Corps after I graduate, but I figure every little bit helps you know?”

“Isn’t the Explorer Corps just a bunch of scientists collecting space-rocks and shit?” Keith asks with a dubious frown. “ _That’s_ what you wanna do?”

“No, I wanna be a pilot. I wanna be the guy who leads the scientists on their missions to explore new worlds.”

“So, the scientists will be exploring while you what? Fly them around, like a bus driver?” Keith asks, one eyebrow skeptically raising.

“Why yes Keith, that is exactly what I’ll be doing. I’ll be flying them around like a bus driver. A space bus driver. Shiro’s space bus service,” Shiro deadpans.

“In space nobody can hear your sarcasm,” Keith grumbles, rolling his eyes.

Shiro almost laughs, almost. “So what about you?” he asks.

“Me?”

“Yeah, got any big plans for the future?”

“Not… really,” Keith says, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

“Oh come on, you must’ve thought about it at least once.” Shiro says. “The thing you’d most like to be doing in ten years?”

Keith sighs explosively. “I think I’d like to help people… protect them from…” he falters, turning self-conscious under Shiro’s curious gaze. “stuff… I guess… I dunno, I never really thought about it before.” He returns his attention to his plate, shoving a great wad of pancakes into his mouth to spare himself from having to talk any longer.

“Well, you’re pretty good with your left hand,” Shiro says thoughtfully, watching Keith easily navigate his meal with one arm out of commission. “Is that the hand you write with?”

“I write with both hands,” Keith says absently, sipping his milkshake.

“Huh,” Shiro huffs. “I’d be lost without my right hand.” Up until this moment he’d have sworn that ambidexterity was a myth, but somehow he believes the kid. It might have something to do with the unlikely color of his eyes. Shiro’s never met anyone with violet eyes before either. “Maybe you should think about becoming a pilot,” he says. “Having equivalent dexterity would probably make your manual navigation really intuitive. And I bet your reflex response times would be off the charts too.”

Keith just stares at him as if he’s speaking in a foreign language. “That means you’d be good at it,” Shiro says flatly.

“You think so?” Keith idly asks.

“Yeah, who knows, maybe we’ll be in the space bus service together someday.” 

Keith frowns slightly at that. “You’re better off alone,” he says, shaking his head.

“You know, for someone who says he wants to help people, you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of them.”

“People let you down,” Keith says softly. “They promise they’ll be there for you and then they leave.”

“Is that what your parents did?” Shiro asks bluntly, because beating around the bush is for old people.

Keith just shrugs. He’s cleaned his plate and is now sucking every last drop of milkshake from the bottom of his glass. Shiro would order him another one, if he didn’t think it’d give him a stomachache. “I guess they died,” he says.

“You guess,” Shiro says, “don’t you know?”

“I don’t really remember. I think my mom… left? Or died? Pretty soon after I was born. My dad never talked about her much. He,” he frowns, “I woke up one morning and he was gone, then the cops showed up and said he wasn't coming back and I needed to go with them.”

Two thoughts pop into Shiro’s head simultaneously; accident, or prison, though he doesn’t share either with Keith. “How old were you?” he asks.

“I dunno, five maybe?”

And Shiro guesses he’s been bouncing from one sketchy foster home to the next ever since, based on his general state of neglect; his long tangled hair and malnutrition. “I don’t get it, why protect people if all they do is let you down?” he asks.

“Maybe they leave because they don’t have anyone to help them,” Keith says. “Maybe that’s why my parents left, because they didn’t have anyone to protect them from whatever made them go.”

Shiro gives the kid an appraising look, there’s a surprisingly compassionate soul under all that attitude. “You never know, they could come back one day,” he says, trying to sound optimistic.

“No one ever comes back,” Keith says flatly.

Shiro’s phone warbles and he grimaces, afraid to look at it, another voicemail from his mom, the third in the last half hour.

“You’re in trouble huh?” Keith asks him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Shiro says, but Keith just shakes his head.

“I should go,” he says, climbing to his feet. “Todd locks…” he falters, “… doesn’t like it when I get home after dark,” he mutters, catching himself.

Shiro can feel his jaw involuntarily clenching again at the stumble. “Let me drive you,” he says.

“No,” Keith says stubbornly, shaking his head. “It’s better if you don’t.” 

He shrugs off the ridiculous sweatshirt Shiro bought him, grimacing slightly when he’s forced to move his injured arm. He almost drops it in a heap on the chair, but appears to think better of it and folds it neatly instead. He pulls on the now dry, though still grungy red hoodie. He can’t straighten his right arm thanks to the bright blue cast immobilizing his elbow, but he tries to arrange it in as natural a position as possible before pulling his sleeve all the way down over his hand to cover it.

For some reason, the entire operation upsets Shiro terribly. It’s as if Keith is disappearing right before his eyes, fading into the background like some sort of ghost child no one’s supposed to notice. He’s surprised to discover that he actually really likes the kid. He gets the feeling that there’s someone amazing underneath all that anger and loneliness. Someone Shiro only managed to briefly glimpse.

“Keith…” he falters, not sure what to say, but feeling as if he should say something.

“Don’t,” Keith says, resigned. “Look, what do you want me to say? That I think you’re a good guy? Fine, I think you’re a good guy. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but we both know the only reason you did any of it is because you felt responsible for hurting me. Well, you don’t have to worry anymore,” he says, holding out his casted arm and wiggling his swollen fingers with barely a wince, “all fixed see? You don’t have anything to feel guilty about. We both get to go back to our lives now.”

Shiro just stands there like an idiot, watching him walk resolutely towards the door. “Keith,” he calls, finally finding his voice. Keith pauses, his hand resting on the door handle. He turns his head and looks back at him. “I wish I could do more,” Shiro says lamely.

Keith smiles then. He actually smiles. It’s small and sad, but it changes his entire face, like a beam of light revealing a hidden flower. For just a moment, Shiro sees the person he could be if he didn’t have the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders. “Some things just can’t be fixed Shiro,” he says. Shiro’s phone rings and both boys’ eyes shift to where’s it’s sitting on the edge of the table. “You should get that,” Keith tells him, “your parents are worried about you.” Then he’s gone, he slides his grubby hood onto his head and slips back out into the rain. 

Shiro lets the call go to voicemail. He tosses enough money onto the table to cover the bill and the tip and shoves his cellphone back into his back pocket. He pauses for a moment, eyeing the neatly folded sweatshirt sitting on Keith’s chair. For some reason he picks it up and runs his fingers over the rainbow decal adorning the front. Standing at the door just now was the first time Keith addressed him by name, almost as if he considered them friends.

Shiro takes the sweatshirt with him back to the car. He isn't sure why. It isn’t as if he’s ever going to see Keith again to return it to him. He tosses it into the passenger seat, then walks around to the driver’s side of the car. His phone rings again and Shiro groans, letting his head fall against the steering wheel. The call goes to voicemail. He has no idea what he’s going to tell his parents, but any explanation that starts with _I ran somebody over_ seems like a really bad idea. He sighs and lifts his head. He starts the car.

He’s half-way home when he notices the white prescription bag peeking out from beneath the crumpled sweatshirt laying in the passenger seat. He pulls over and plucks it out, staring at the barcode sticker for a moment before he opens it. A small amber pill bottle falls out and drops into his hand; _to reduce swelling_ , he reads. 

Keith’s going to need this for his arm, he thinks, his mind calling up the image of the kid pulling his sleeve down over the cast, trying so hard to hide it from view. _Is it, like really noticeable?_

Shiro’s eyes go wide, because he suddenly realizes what Keith was asking him at the hospital. Will _Todd_ notice it. Todd who beats him when he gets angry, Todd who will see the cast and assume Keith ratted him out to the doctor who treated him. “Son of a bitch!” Shiro growls, his eyes shifting to Keith’s name and address on the pill bottle’s label. His phone rings. He switches it to vibrate and tosses it into the glovebox. His jaw involuntarily clenches and Shiro shifts the car into drive and turns around, speeding off back the way he came…

***

It’s dark by the time his GPS locates the right house. Shiro pulls up to the curb and gets out, eyeing the overgrown yard and weed covered driveway with trepidation. The rain’s finally stopped. Shiro looks up to find a pale sliver of moon peeking out from behind fast moving clouds. There’s a light on in the house. The shades are drawn, but he can see movement behind them.

He gnaws his bottom lip and quietly starts walking up the driveway. He has no plan, just a knot of worry sitting in the pit of his stomach that he can’t ignore. He hears shouting coming from inside the house and runs the rest of the way to the front door banging on it with his fist. “Keith!” he yells, “Are you in there! Are you okay!” He tries the doorknob. It turns in his hand.

He pushes the door open. The man he assumes is Todd has Keith pinned against the wall and Shiro is just in time to see him viciously backhand the kid across the face. Keith goes down, hard, and Shiro launches himself at Todd. 

At sixteen, Shiro is just a hair’s breadth under six-feet-tall. Turns out he’s got a good three inches and twenty-something fewer years on Todd. He grabs the smaller man by the shoulders and twists, pinning him to the wall with a lanky forearm across the chest.

“What? What the fuck! Who the fuck are you?” Todd slurs drunkenly, thrashing impotently in Shiro’s grasp.

Shiro ignores him. “Keith? Keith? Keith!” he yammers, alarmed at the sight of Keith’s emaciated body sprawled on the floor. Keith slowly shakes his head and props himself up on his good arm. He looks up, the cut on his lip has reopened. Blood and drool dribble down his chin, soaking his grimy hoodie as his violet eyes slowly focus on Shiro’s face. “You okay kid?” Shiro asks.

Keith’s gaze silently shifts from Shiro to Todd then back to Shiro again. He nods. “Okay,” Shiro says, breathing a small sigh of relief. “Go clean yourself up and grab your stuff. We’re leaving.”

“The fuck he is!” Todd sneers. “You’re not going anywhere you little shit!” he taunts trying to intimidate Keith as he slowly climbs to his feet.

“Shutting the fuck up is always an option Todd,” Shiro grunts, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and slamming him against the wall hard enough to take his breath away. Keith winces and quickly shuffles out of the room, refusing to look at either one of them.

“Who the fuck are you?” Todd demands again, rapidly blinking red-rimmed eyes. Shiro is close enough to smell the liquor on his breath and the cheap cologne on his clothes. It’s turning his stomach. “Get the fuck out of my house before I call the police!” Todd threatens, but Shiro just rolls his eyes.

“Go ahead,” he says mildly. “I’m sure the police would be very interested to know how you’ve been spending your free time.” Shiro can’t be one hundred percent sure, but he thinks Todd may have a drug habit. There’s more than just alcohol clouding those bloodshot eyes. “Maybe they’ll search the place,” he muses thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “Care to speculate on what they’ll find?” 

Todd says nothing, but his face wrinkles up like a bowl of curdled milk.

Keith returns then, carrying a shabby red backpack. The cut on his lip has stopped bleeding, though it’s red and angry looking and already starting to swell. His cheek is inflamed as well, and will be black and blue with Todd’s slimy handprint by morning. Shiro wants nothing more than to inflict the same kind of damage on him, but instead he lets Todd go, dismissively turning his back and placing his hand on Keith’s uninjured shoulder. “Let’s go,” he says, simply.

“Good! Get the fuck out!” Todd rages after them. “And don’t even _think_ about coming back!” _As if_ , Shiro thinks, but Keith falters, his shoulder tensing in Shiro’s grip. “Don’t think I won’t report this! We’ll just see what Adams has to say about it!” Keith stumbles and takes off, running down the driveway to Shiro’s waiting car. He climbs into the passenger seat and slams the door shut behind him.

Shiro doesn't know who this Adams is. Keith’s case worker at Social Services, he guesses. Whoever they are they deserve to be fired for abandoning Keith to a piece of garbage like Todd. He turns, glaring at Todd as he closes the door on him and blocks out his enraged ranting.

Without so much as a parting glance, Shiro leaves Todd behind. He casually walks down the driveway and climbs into the waiting car. Keith sits in brooding silence next to him, pressed against the passenger door with his head resting against the window. He looks as if he’s going to be sick.

Shiro presses his lips together and starts the car. He turns around in the street and drives back the way he came. Neither boy so much as glances at Todd’s house as they pass. Keith whimpers softly, tentatively fingering his swelling lip. Shiro looks at him and Keith draws his knees up to his chest, pulling himself into a tight little ball against the passenger door, as if he’s somehow ashamed of showing weakness in front of Shiro.

Shiro frowns and pulls over to the side of the road, coming to a stop in front of someone’s house. A little dog starts yapping through the fence. He switches the dome light on above his head. “Let me see,” he says, his fingers brushing Keith’s curled back.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Keith rounds on him and bats his hand away. “Are you insane?” he demands. “What the fuck were you even thinking?”

Shiro recoils, taken aback by Keith’s anger. “I was thinking I couldn't just stand by and watch that douchehole lay his hands on you!” 

“I told you, this isn't something you can fix!” Keith shrieks at him.

“You needed help!” Shiro snaps indignantly.

“I never asked for your fucking help!” Keith cries, his wide eyes filling with tears. “God! Now you’ve just made everything worse!” he gasps, starting to hyperventilate. “They’ll put me somewhere worse!” He’s in a full-blown panic now. His hand is grasping his head so tightly, Shiro fears he may actually start pulling his hair out.

“Keith, you’re not…” Shiro starts, his anger immediately dissipating.

“They’ll think I ran Shiro!” Keith cries, his voice cracking with unshed tears. “You know what they do to foster kids who run? They put them in group homes with bars on the doors and windows! It’s like being in a fucking prison! They lo… lock you up at night!” he breaks down, dissolving into tears.

For a moment Shiro just sits there at a loss. Then he takes the kid in his arms. Keith falls against him, his tear-streaked face buried against Shiro’s chest. His good hand clutches fitfully at Shiro’s shirt as his small body heaves with great shuddering sobs. 

“No one is gonna lock you up,” Shiro says softly, one hand rubbing Keith’s trembling back. “You’re hurt and you’re scared, so you’re not thinking straight right now. Otherwise, you’d realize that there is no way in hell anyone ever meant to place you with that fuckhead Todd. It was some sort of oversight,” Shiro says, “a breakdown in the system. You fell down a hole kid. You’ve been lost inside it for a long time, but you’re out now. You’ve been found. I found you, and I’m not gonna let you fall again.”

“No,” Keith keens softly, his bitter tears staining Shiro’s shirt. “Please don't do this to me.”

“Do what?”

“Make me trust you,” Keith sobs, “make me care about you just so you can leave me too.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, “look at me.” Keith sniffs hugely and lifts his head. “I can't predict the future. Things happen. That’s just life. But I will promise you this. Even if I'm not always there, I will never give up on you, and I will do my best to make sure you never give up on yourself.”

Keith sniffs again and pulls away from him, sinking back into his own seat. He weakly swipes at the tears still spilling from his eyes and Shiro hands him a tissue pack. “You’re like a hundred,” Keith says almost fondly, rolling his eyes. He takes a tissue from the pack and blows his running nose. “When you’re old, you’re gonna be carrying around a big man-purse full of wadded up tissues and half-sticks of gum.” 

“Gimme a break kid,” Shiro chuckles, affectionately tousling Keith’s tangled head, “it’s my mom’s car.”

Shiro starts the car. 

“Where are we going?” Keith asks him.

“Someplace safe,” he says simply, pulling away from the curb…

***

His parents ambush him as soon as he walks in the door of course, trapping him in the foyer. He honestly wasn’t expecting anything else. His dad immediately starts lecturing him in Japanese. Shiro pulls a face, catching maybe every other word, which does wonders for his dad’s mood. It’s mostly about disrespecting his parents and worrying his mother and we thought we raised you better than this. Would a phone call have been too much to ask?

All the while, his mom doesn’t say anything. She just stands there with her arms crossed over her chest with this look of utter disappointment on her face, which makes Shiro feel like the worst son in the world. He doesn’t try to defend himself. He went way off the reservation on this one. He just stands there patiently waiting for his dad to take a breath so he can get a word in.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself young man?” his dad finally says, eyeing Shiro sternly and giving him the opening he needs.

Shiro steps aside, revealing a wide-eyed Keith in a ridiculously oversized novelty sweatshirt standing behind him. “Mom, Dad, this is Keith,” he says, escorting the somewhat reluctant kid further into the room. “He kinda needs a place to stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on the [tumblr](https://radiofreekerberos.tumblr.com/)


End file.
